


Monster or Man

by RedheadAmongWolves



Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Genuinely did not know the jester had a name till I was making these tags I'm so sorry, Or like AU Backstory, i'm a fake fan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 12:59:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18235229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedheadAmongWolves/pseuds/RedheadAmongWolves
Summary: But he began to weave a doll, and he listened as Notre Dame began to whisper a riddle.





	Monster or Man

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I wrote this.
> 
> Literally I haven't watched this movie in like two years but I woke up this morning and this just typed itself in my notes while I was brushing my teeth and doing my makeup. Shoutout my main man Quasi. Probably enormously inaccurate but hope I did u proud.

Here is a riddle, he tells them, which everyone knows the answer to, but no one will admit it.

It strikes him as funny, that they tell this story in the shadow of its monster’s cage, and he thinks that is why he is the jester, why he paints his face and plays the fool, because while they can turn a blind eye and be thankful for the shade, he sees this city for what it truly is, and it would drive him mad if he did not laugh. 

And so he tells the story to the children and to them that is all it is, a story, for puppets and song and dance. A fable, they reason, to teach the children a lesson, but he wonders how well a lesson can truly be learned when it hasn’t yet been taught to those it was made for. 

He cannot tell it to the grown-ups because the words go right through them. He thinks perhaps they should teach things to adults through puppets, too, more than the children need it, because when you get older you lose your eye for color, lose your ear for truth. Children see and hear too much and that is why they get the puppets, to soften the blow. The grown-ups see and hear too little, and that is why the jester refuses to be one of them. 

And so he tells the story to the children in hopes one day someone will hear it. 

He looks at the little girls and boys clapping their hands in delight, and remembers a little figure, hidden in shadows, too thin and too sad, more sadness than should be able to fit in a form so small, a foot dragging behind him as he moved along the wall, hands pressed to the stained glass. That first night, drunk on stolen wine and freezing in his thin tunic as he slid through the sanctuary’s doors, the jester had thought he was hallucinating, had finally lost his marbles, to see gargoyles come to life and haunt the halls of the chapel. But then the deacon opened a door for the little creature to slip through, the door that led to the towers, and the jester rationed in his muddled brain that even demons deserved to rest now and then. We cannot pick how we are born, after all, and sometimes the burden of being is simply too much. 

The jester slept on the pews for many years, holding his life in a threadbare satchel, before he had his show and his puppets were peg dolls with straw for hair. And each night, he would look up the ceiling, telling himself stories, and swear he could see someone looking back at him. He would speak a little louder, as he fell asleep, in case they wanted to hear. 

He knew enough about churches to know that if you saw someone staring down from the rafters, it was probably best not to look away. 

He was there that first morning, when the bells rang as usual, but they sounded different, somehow, like they were trying more than ever to be heard. The corridors of the chapel seemed to shake with the feeling of it, that strange desperation, and the jester felt the heart of Paris break a little underfoot. Someone was suffering. Someone was suffering, and still they brought beauty to others, and that is the worst kind of suffering the jester has yet to find. 

But none of us are without sin, and so the jester did not ask what he could do to help. He was not that unselfish, not yet. But he began to weave a doll, that first morning, and hum a little tune, and he listened as Notre Dame began to whisper a riddle. 

The bells chime, now, as evening begins to descend and wrap Paris in a cool embrace, and the jester packs up his kit, sending a last look at the bell tower as he does. 

“Goodnight, Quasimodo,” he says softly, and leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> He can hear the bells because he has a child's soul oooooof strike me down hellfire.


End file.
